RL: Presented with Minimal Commentary


Minimal (?) Commentary is this –

  1. Hi Twila!
  2. The Odyssey of Ulysses is drastically and yet not so much different from the Odyssey of the Irish. One may have been fact turned into fiction. The other was fact turned into distorted fact braided into fiction and hey lo, here we are. Sort it out.
  3. Thus, the selfish note part 1 (goddammnit, there’s a three) – If I could have half her voice…or a quarter of it…
  4. The selfish note part 2 – The last song that ends the film…I’ve been listening to off  and on for about…four weeks? And it scares the hell out of me.

Actually, “Delilah” and “Third Eye” both scare me…

And so. And thus.

Enjoy, and Blessed be.


Claire #1

What did I do?

She’s funny and serious all at the same time and I’ve no idea how I should interpret it…

But…I get the feeling…I’m supposed to figure it out on my own like she did…

But I have no direction.

And…what scares me most is…I don’t think she did either.

I open my notebook, and write with my pencil  (The War, you see. This pencil is my safe haven so far. I’ve had to give up everything else to The War. My ink…my pen…my favorite doll…)

Might it be possible that we find Peace? I mean, Peace in that things just…why can’t we just get along? Is That so hard?


I hear my mother’s voice calling me. I shut the Notebook.

RL: Boom-Klak-Boom-Klak

I am the last of my kind.

“On and on and on…”

I am the only one with my lying last name.

Someone I thought was close to me that ran like she does because I got goofy got farther from me because I can’t keep anything good close said to me “I’ve found that when writing hurts it’s better to stop writing.”

And so. Like Eve, I pick the Fig,  The Fig, the Apple the goddamned fruit the goddamned fruit that brings the Fall…

I pluck it, I suck it, and my world is alive again.

I am alive again because she gave me my words back.


It wasn’t just her.

There is the wise one, the one who might die before I because of her choices (and don’t get me wrong, I’d give my Life up to keep her on this Earth, and am still hoping she remains to teach long after I am dust)  who kept gently pushing.


I am the last of my kind.

I write because it hurts. I write because it heals. Me, at least. And the hurt….hurts….trust. Because when the words pour out there is a point when I sob….and I have sobbed many times in writing truth and writing the “story” I’ve begun with my grandmother. It’s…fictional because I was never told the whole truth. Just segments. But do trust, when you recognize Me? That’s my truth.

My right arm and the scars will prove it.

I write because I can’t help but hope to hell that maybe some of my words will…be heard…and maybe, understood. And…damn fo0l that I am, maybe help. I’ve no idea how, but I hold hope in my hands, because sometimes that’s all I feel I have left.

Boom. Klak.

Catch a Four-Leafed Clover.

I am the last of the lies. But I hope I can continue to tell the…story…as it is in my head…of why I Am.

That’s all I can ask for.


RL: A Short Bit About Short Stories

I used to hate short stories. Hate hate 2x double hate.

Stories were supposed to be EPIC. Play out over years and decades and centuries if it was a good one! Good vs Evil vs Chaos vs Law vs Ninjas vs Pirates vs Light vs Dark vs oh for the bloody love of verses (and sequels and the cash that may come with)…


Short stories are uncomfortable because they may not have a definite beginning nor definite end. They may just trail off from their trailing on to the stage, mid-sentence, mid-stream to make you wonder “WhatwherewhohowwhyWTF?”

We want definite beginnings. We want definite middles. We want definite ends. We don’t want to wait, to think, to imagine the in-betweens. We want clarity throughout, control throughout.

I have slowly, very slowly, learned to love short stories. Because they’re so much more like day to day life.

I loved “The Glass Menagerie” when we read the play in High School. It broke my damn fool heart in long-form.

May I present to you the story that broke my damn fool heart in short form.

 “The Paper Menagerie” by Ken Liu. 




Present Day #1

She’d tried meditating. She’d tried “Deep Breathing”. She’d tried focusing on candles and objects that meant something to her, walking long-ass weary miles, listening to angry music and dancing like a lunatic artreadingwritingphysics fucking everything but in the end…

…in the end…

…in the end…

The only time she’d ever felt truly, deeply calm, was after she’d destroyed something.

Not something ethereal or metaphysical, like a relationship. If anything, she’d done her level best not to destroy those. Those…those…were precious. She knew this. And yet….there was always a cut-off. Always….something…snagging her heel, making her trip and fall on her face like the Jester she’d cloaked herself in. Always walking the tightrope, always knowing that the more she opened up, the more she let others in…the more she was vulnerable was when the jackals would come bouncing in, knowing one…wrong….step and *BAM*

Street Meat.

She was good at being Street Meat these days.

What she destroyed was herself. Her physical being. And when that got too tiring (not to mention painful and occasionally expensive, depending on the doctor), she started destroying her life. And, once THAT got too tiring (and, again, painful and expensive, just on different emotional and psychic levels), something she’d bought for herself, and herself alone, something she’d saved and slaved for.

Once the Rage took over….she couldn’t help herself. And, after all, in the end, the blame was always only on her.

On her.

It was all on her.

She sat, in the middle of her Aerie, with the remnants of her laptop blasted like shrapnel around her. She took a breath….two…then three…and managed to find her legs enough to stand and shudder towards the window. Bits of metal  and plastic *tinked* off of her and onto the linoleum like tears. She grabbed the pane and shoved it upwards so hard it took her three days and a lot of work to get it back down again.

Cold wind blasted her face and filled her lungs and filled her already fiery belly until the only thing that naturally could happen was her scream, her angry, howling bellow like a volcano exploding into the still night



“Shut the hell up!” came a voice from somewhere on the block.


She took another breath, and went to bed.



Author’s note – The laptop’s fine.